The Resurrection of the Body (5 page)

Mary Magdalene’s anguished words, fresh from Friday’s reading, went through my head: ‘They have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid Him.’ 

T
he Encounter with Jim

The following morning, Easter Monday, when I went out to the shops to buy a paper, I unexpectedly bumped into Jim.

He was standing at the corner of London Fields,
smoking
a cigarette. He was unshaven and dishevelled and I felt that there was something rather furtive about the look that he gave me.

He turned away, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, and gave a little wave, the sort of wave you give when you hope somebody will not stop, but just go on their way. I was about to do this, starting to cross the road, when something made me change my mind and go on up to him.

‘We haven’t seen you for a long time, Jim,’ I said
cheerily
.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, ‘been rather busy.’

I couldn’t think of any word less appropriate to Jim’s daily life than this.

‘No need to apologise,’ I said. ‘Do come along one Sunday if you have time.’

‘Thanks, Richard, but I don’t think I’ll come. You see, I’ve been thinking about it all, and I’ve decided … it’s all superstition, all this religious stuff, just like not walking under ladders. I’ve been walking under a lot of ladders recently, and I haven’t had a single pot of paint fall on me yet!’ And he began to laugh loudly at his own joke.

Something about the way he laughed gave me an unpleasant feeling. I felt strongly that no purpose would be served in continuing the conversation, and wanted to get away at once. At the same time, I felt a responsibility towards him, that I shouldn’t just brush him aside,
especially
if he was in some kind of difficulty.

‘Well, Jim, if you change your mind, you’re always welcome, you know that. We’d all like to see you.’

I smiled and turned away, but Jim started to walk along beside me. He walked with a slight limp, and now I could detect a faint whiff of whisky on his breath.

‘I’ve been hearing things,’ he said suddenly.

‘Hearing things?’ I echoed stupidly.

‘That somebody was murdered in the church.’

‘There was a very unfortunate incident, yes.’

‘Do they know who done it?’

‘No, Jim, I don’t think they do.’ I was deliberately
keeping
my voice cheery, almost flippant, as a way of
protecting
myself from the very bad vibes I was definitely picking up from him. ‘Do you have any ideas?’

‘Me? Me? Why should I have any ideas?’ His voice had suddenly become slightly menacing. ‘Why’re you asking me?’

‘Oh, just because I see you around quite a bit,’ I said. ‘I thought if you had been around on Good Friday, you might have seen if somebody odd was hanging about near the church.’

‘I was in bed,’ he said, suddenly standing still and
staring
at the ground. ‘Was terrible ill, Good Friday, I was. Had to phone the doctor, but he wouldn’t come out. Never do these days, you know.’

‘Still, I’m glad to see you’re better today, Jim,’ I said. ‘Well, I must be off. Nice to talk to you.’

I crossed the road, towards my house. I could feel his eyes boring unpleasantly into my back as I went. Of course, I couldn’t help thinking of Sidney’s suspicions, and I suppose it did cross my mind that Jim might be up to no good. But I had no desire to try to find out, to play the amateur detective. Extraordinary though these events had been, I was absolutely sure in my own mind that there was a rational explanation, and that the police would probably in due course dig it out.

T
he Young Journalist

I suppose it should not have surprised me when later that day I had a telephone call from a local journalist, Kevin Brown of the Hackney Gazette. Somebody had given him the tip-off that a man had been murdered at the church and he wanted to talk to me about it.

At first I was very hesitant and circumspect, especially when he raised the issue of the theft of the body. We
chatted
for a few minutes, and I told him as simply as I could what had happened on the Friday. He asked me whether it was possible for a photographer to come and take pictures of the church, and I said that we had some excellent
black-and
-white photographs taken over the course of a year by
a local photographer who was recording the life of the church, and that he was welcome to come and have a look at these.

He turned up the next day at my office and I gave him a selection of photographs which I had looked out for him. He asked if he could see the church and I took him through. It was a dim, dark day and in the late afternoon twilight the empty church seemed gloomy and sepulchral.

He meandered round, seemingly not very interested, and then we returned to my study.

‘So what do you think the meaning of it all is?’ he said, looking at me, his pen poised above his thick reporter’s notebook. He was a young man, in his twenties, with a checked jacket and slicked-back hair. His impatience and his eagerness betrayed his ambition.

‘I don’t think there is a meaning. It’s a terrible tragedy that this has happened. As to why the body was stolen, I don’t have a clue. Have the police offered any theories?’

‘They think it might be a Kurdish/Turkish vendetta. The two communities rub along all right some of the time, then something happens, or they just get bored and start provoking one another. Somebody else was knifed locally just the other week; they’re working on the theory that it might be a revenge killing.’

‘And the theft of the body?’

He shrugged. ‘Removing the evidence? Causing grief to the family concerned?’

‘There seems to be a distinct absence of grieving
relatives
.’

He looked up at me sharply. ‘So you don’t think it was anything supernatural.’

I tried to laugh, but I think it came out rather falsely. ‘No, of course not.’

‘But it’s rather curious, isn’t it? I mean, two thousand years ago the disciples turned up at the tomb, found the body gone, and told everyone it had been resurrected. Why didn’t they believe that it had been stolen then?’

‘Well, of course, this was said by some people at the time. In Matthew … chapter twenty-eight, verses eleven to fifteen, let me see …’ I flicked through the pages of my pocket Bible. ‘Some of the watch went to the chief priests, and “they gave large sums of money unto the soldiers,
saying
, Say ye, His disciples came by night, and stole him away while we slept.” But the disciples believed otherwise, because, according to John at least, he had predicted that he would rise again on the third day.’

‘So you don’t think the same thing could happen these days? I mean, if God made miracles happen two thousand years ago, why shouldn’t he do so today?’

His tone annoyed me. ‘No, I think that’s wrong. If Christ came again today, the story would have to be told rather differently.’

The young man was scribbling in his notebook. ‘In what way, differently?’

I tried patiently to explain. ‘Well, in those days, people believed in miracles. So, in order to show that Jesus was Christ, the evangelists had to tell stories about the virgin birth, the resurrection, and so on, to demonstrate to
people that he was no ordinary man. The problem is that nowadays, miracles are to most people not an aid but an obstacle to belief.’

Kevin Brown looked puzzled. ‘Let me get this straight. Are you saying that you don’t believe in the virgin birth or the resurrection?’

I knew that, speaking to a journalist, I had to be very careful. It would clearly be unwise just to say ‘yes’ to such a question. I reflected for a moment, trying to choose my words with caution. ‘Well, as you probably know, the Anglican Church is a broad Church. There are basically three main groups within it: the evangelicals, who take the Bible as their starting point and tend to take things more literally; the traditionalists, who think we should keep things much as they are and tend to adhere to the existing doctrine; and then there are the liberals, who on the whole believe in change, in reinterpreting Christianity to make it more relevant to our age. Then of course there are also the radicals – the ones who, one might say, don’t believe in God as an external being at all.’

‘Like that vicar who was kicked out recently.’

‘Exactly.’

‘And where do you stand?’

‘I’m a liberal.’

‘I see.’ He jotted this down. ‘So, let’s be quite clear … what do you actually believe?’

I had my answer off pat. ‘I believe that the virgin birth and the resurrection didn’t happen in actual fact, but that they have an important symbolic meaning. They are important because of what they reveal about ourselves and
our relationship to God, and about the nature of God, revealed in Jesus Christ.’

He took this down, jumped up, and thrust his
notebook
into his pocket.

Harriet was watching as I showed him out.

‘What did he want?’ she asked me.

‘Just to know what I thought of these events, that’s all.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Nothing, really.’ Harriet didn’t press me; she went into the kitchen. But now the journalist had gone, I couldn’t help feeling uncomfortable, and that perhaps, in my desire to explain, I had said more than was really wise.

T
he Gardener

It was on Tuesday afternoon that Mary came to see me in my study, looking breathless and anxious. She is normally very neatly dressed and organised and there was
something
about her distracted appearance which instantly alarmed me.

‘Mary, what is it?’ I asked. ‘Has something happened?’

‘I hope you won’t think I’m going mad,’ she said. ‘I wondered whether I should come and see you at all. Perhaps there’s a reasonable explanation for it. It could be his brother or something.’

‘Mary, sit down calmly, and let’s talk about it. Do you want to say a prayer first, quietly, with me?’

Mary calmed herself, folded her hands across her lap,
and sat very still while I said a short prayer. Immediately she seemed much less agitated. She began to tell me her story. She was one of those people who has to start at the beginning and tell the story at her own pace, so I didn’t try to interrupt her; usually I found that just prolonged things.

‘Well, I’d gone up to visit my friend Rachel in Stoke Newington, and it was such a lovely day, after all this awful weather we’ve been having, so I thought I would just go and have a stroll in the park. I like to go to that cafe, you know, in the old house there, and I sat and had a
coffee
. I saw the man in the garden, he was there for a while, pruning the roses. I just sort of watched him, casually, for some time, while I finished my coffee.’

She paused for a moment and fiddled with the clasp on her handbag.

‘When I left I walked past him. I was right next to him, as far away as I am from you. He was just on the other side of the rose bushes, with the clippers in his hand, and he looked up at me as I went past. A terrible shock to me it was, because I could see at once that it was that man in the church. I thought, my goodness, he must have
recovered
quickly, and then I remembered that you had told me he was dead. He smiled and said, “Hello,” and I said, “Hello,” back, you know, like you do, and then he said, “Don’t you remember me?” I tell you, I was so frightened that I just turned and ran away and I didn’t know who to tell so I just came straight here to see you.’

I didn’t know what to think. Well, what would anyone have thought? I was silent, considering my response carefully.
‘Have you told anyone else about this, Mary?’

‘No.’ She looked at me, puzzled. ‘Should I?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘I think it would be better to keep it to yourself.’

‘Do you believe me, Richard? You don’t think I’m off my head?’

‘Well, you could be right. Perhaps it could be a brother of this man.’ I thought for a moment, and then said, thinking aloud, ‘But then it would be very odd that he
hadn’t
informed the police about it.’

Mary now seemed worried about this hypothetical brother. ‘He might not know. How would he know?
Suppose
he only saw his brother occasionally? There was no name in the papers. Do you think we should tell the police?’

Again, I gave this very careful consideration. ‘Well, it might be an idea to tell the police. This gardener must be employed by the council. I suppose it would be something for them to follow up. But don’t be frightened about it,

Mary. There’ll be a reasonable explanation, don’t you worry. Surely you don’t believe in ghosts, do you?’ Mary got to her feet. She said, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Richard. I was just being silly, wasn’t I? Thank you, you’ve made me feel much better about it.’ She looked at her feet. ‘But you will ring the police for me, won’t you? I don’t like to have anything to do with the police; they’ll find some way to blame something on me, like they did with Mercy, you can be sure of that.’

I stood up and opened the door for her. When she had gone I turned and shut the door firmly behind me and
stared at the phone. Perhaps I should call the police, but the thought gave me no joy. I could imagine the sardonic voice of Detective Chief Inspector Stone as I tried to explain things. No, I would have to be sure first. Perhaps it was all in Mary’s imagination. I looked at my watch. I had an hour before I had to go to a meeting at the church school. I put the answerphone on, locked up my desk and drove up to Clissold Park.

It was a warm, spring-like day. People were relishing the sudden change in the weather, had gone out with their children, feeding the ducks; nannies with pushchairs strolled along in the bright sunlight. I came to the rose garden near the café and stood on the path. It was deserted. In the distance the high war-cry of children’s voices came to me from the playground behind the wall.

I stood there for five or ten minutes, breathing in the warm air, looking at the new green shoots on the rose stems. You could see that they had indeed been recently pruned; the stems were green and here and there was a cutting which had fallen to the ground. But now there was no sign of any gardener. I turned and walked back down the path to the road, looking thoughtfully at the ground.

As I reached the gate a man passed me. I glanced up and saw his face. He was wearing bulky gardener’s gloves and carried a pair of secateurs, and he looked nothing like the man from the church.

I felt angry and foolish and curiously disappointed. I went to the car and drove back to the school, determined to blot the whole thing from my mind.